Here’s the beef over pumped-up referees

As anyone who has seen me will attest, I’m long and strong. Because my heart is so pure, I have the strength of 10 men. Sure, one leg is longer than the other. But that’s only because I do a lot of stop-and-go driving. Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. Brake. Brake. . . .

But even a specimen like me has to stop and admire what has become of the NFL referee. They’ve become bigger than the players. Bulging biceps. Barrel chests. Little striped Schwarzeneggers with whistles around their necks. I blame it on the exposure they get, now that they explain the penalties over the public address system. Give a guy a microphone and look what happens.

Now, there is much to celebrate in this season of the harvest. We have that new kid, a southpaw, headed for the White House. He believes in an eight-team college playoff system. Does Congress need to approve that? Do we need two-thirds of the states to ratify? Call it the Carroll Amendment, the first legislation of the newest New Deal.

Meanwhile, in other sports news, the actress Tea Leoni just announced that she is a free agent after 11 years of marriage to Hollywood’s village idiot, David Duchovny. Of course, I suspect that she’s not really free. Like most free agents -- the actress Manny Ramirez comes to mind -- Leoni is the very opposite of “free.”

But perhaps the most striking development of all is what’s become of the common referee, who suddenly looks like a contestant in the Mr. Miami prelims. I guess you’d want to be in shape too if you were throwing 20 flags a quarter. That’s a lot of laundry for anyone.

Not so long ago, NFL referees all looked like Willard Scott. They had Muppet shapes and very little hair, except what was coming out of their ears. They waddled around the field like Dreamworks penguins. If there was a fumble and a pileup, they wisely ran the other way.

Today’s beefcakes actually paw through a pileup, looking for the ball. Now we know where all the steroids went. Hey, Urlacher, keep your head on a swivel. Ed Hochuli is coming over the middle. He’s got bigger guns than you do. If he chest thumps you, it’s over.

Hochuli was the first, and now others seem to be following. Perhaps this new breed of referees represents a leaner, more manic time. Or more likely, the whole world’s gone just a little bit more bananas.

“It’s something I need to do as a release,” Hochuli told SI.com about his four-day-a-week weightlifting routine. “Something that gets me through the day.”

Three nights a week the veteran referee eats chicken noodle soup, and once a week a big salad. He doesn’t like red meat, but sometimes sneaks some Cheetos or little chocolate kisses.

Huh?

Amazing how referees differ by sport. The NFL has these robo refs, lawyerly types who never lose their cool. The NBA, meanwhile, prefers trim and natty control freaks with a quart of Pennzoil in their hair.

The NHL has those dandy boys in the figure skates, escapees from the Ice Capades. But the best of all are those big tired walls of flesh -- baseball’s home plate umpires.

To many of us, this is what a guy who calls a game should look like. He’s very careful what he eats -- Italian four days a week, and that’s just at breakfast. For a major league umpire, a diet means going with the domestic beer, instead of the heavier German brew.

Sure, a baseball umpire has a few anger management issues -- it’s almost a job requirement. Bad commute to the park that day? He’ll run the home team manager. Don’t like that strike call? You’re outta here, punk.

The home plate umpire is an American archetype -- a Willy Loman, a Stanley Kowalski, a relic of another time. Umpires may never make the cover of GQ, but MLB guys have moxie and personality. And 40 extra pounds, just in case.

Major League umpires don’t just have bellies, they have personal three-point arcs. They live a little. They don’t frequent the deli where the guy who makes the sandwiches weighs the meat. To an umpire, a deli sandwich is a work of art. Did Picasso measure his paint? Did Sinatra weigh his gin?

Major League umpires are large and in charge. They take up two seats on an airplane and three seats at the opera (so they can sleep). They generally live to be 100, unless they keel over during a rain delay in Milwaukee.

Those are the guys I want to watch from my easy chair. When I sit down with a sandwich the size of Cincinnati on a Sunday afternoon, that’s who I want making the calls.

That way, with a mouthful of ham and cheese, I can rightfully think: “You know, those guys should really take better care of themselves.”

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chris.erskine@latimes.com